Forget Me Nots & Daisies
by Ayveena
Summary: Jack starts losing time and the only constant seems to be Atlas. (Gen Jatlas)
1. Losing Time

Jack's eyes fluttered open, feeling as if a raging bull had slammed its way through his skull. Lifting his pounding head, he groped around for the radio across the soaking wet floor of-

wherever he was. It wasn't Arcadia, that was for sure. The roof dripped into puddles of murky brine, the lights flickered and wavered against dark corners and the room was littered with torn furniture that smelt of stale cigarettes. Could be anywhere.

When his trembling fingers closed around the humming radio, he fumbled at its edges to find the reply button.

"A-Atlas?" Jack's voice shook like a leaf, speaking softly as he sat up against a set of pipes. His voice was wrecked, and his throat ached like a bruise.

"So you didn't go and get yourself killed by a splicer! That's good t'know."

"Look, boyo, I've been callin' you for donkey's yonks," the Irish lilt continued, "I think one of those Houdini splicers knocked you out like a light an' dragged you off."

Jack's eyes widened as he wracked his brain for his last memory, but drew up short. He'd revived the trees, and then...

And then.

"I- I don't know where I am."

"You're somewhere, Jackie boy. I'll have to check t'see exactly where."

The static-filled voice gave a sharp exhale.

"Sweet baby Jesus boyo, you're miles off course."

"Where?"

"You're in bloody Olympus Heights!"

Jack's skin crawled.

"Now I don't think I need to tell you this, but you're a long way off Arcadia."

"It-it's happened before..." It hurt Jack to talk, ached like fingernails scraped across raw flesh. Why did it hurt so much?

"Before?" Atlas sounded taken aback, "that when y'went all quiet on your way to Fontaine Fisheries?"

Jack nodded, then realised his mistake and mumbled an affirmative.

"This stinks o' Ryan's work," Atlas hissed, "seems like something the bastard would do."

The radio crackled into empty silence.

"Are you hurt?"

Jack hadn't really felt anything prior to Atlas asking that question, but the moment he did the aches became clear.

His wrists were rubbed raw and red, bruises leaving a black path up his chest and presumably his neck. Crusted and dried blood came loose from his scalp as he rubbed it.

"I'm fine."

"You're soundin' hoarse as anything, so I can tell you've been roughed up, Jack."

"I think someone's taken my supplies."

"Tell you what- I've got a stash of supplies up in the penthouse 'round here. Savin' 'em for a rainy day. From where you are, I reckon there's a workin' elevator just 'round the left corner. I'll just hafta find the passcode."

No EVE, with only his wrench. Jack would have more luck exploring the nearby area, then he wouldn't have to waste what Atlas had. Atlas was the only person he had down here, he didn't want to take too much from him. He could handle himself, he thought, even as he staggered across the frayed carpet. Hypos and health kits weren't too rare. Maybe he'd even find a loaded pistol.

"That seems a bit out of my way, I can probably go find something from around here-"

The Irishman gave an exasperated noise, "Calm down and trust me, would you kindly?"

Atlas was probably right, anyway. He'd offered Jack the supplies, and there would probably be no splicers up there. He could get to a bathysphere and get back to work. Maybe even sleep a moment, if it didn't waste too much time. He was so tired.

"The passcode's 5744. Get to it, boyo."

He got to it.

* * *

The end of Frank Fontaine's cigarette glowed as he stubbed it out on the chipped ashtray, reclining against one of the less damaged office chairs in his apartment. Using the pheromones he had on the splicers in Arcadia to get the kid over here had been one thing, but avoiding Ryan's eagle eyes had been another entirely. Fucking hell, it was hard enough as it was, the old coot just didn't know when to quit.

Compared to when he bagged the kid on his way to Fontaine's Fisheries, it was like comparing the pain of a papercut to a bullet in the chest.

Taking the kid's stuff and leaving it piled up in a box was just another measure he eagerly extended to the kid, who already trusted an Irish man on the radio more than he trusted his own heartbeat. It was just a matter of smoke and mirrors and Jack would be wrapped tight around his pinkie finger. He wouldn't even know the guns and hypos were his, with a few extra scratches and chips courtesy of a small pocket knife and a lining of soft dust. He even hid a couple of others on the way to the bathysphere, for good measure.

The faint whirr of the elevator startled Frank, who ran a hand through his messed black hair and stood, making his way towards the entry hall. He had to be everything the kid hoped he would be, he needed every measure of trust from the little idiot. The look of absolute earnestness on the brat's face whenever he spoke was so soft and pliable like hot chewing gum that there wasn't much work to do on that. If it wasn't too much trouble he'd likely keep the kid once he splattered Ryan across the windows.

The crunch of raked sand against the kid's feet was a heavy sound, the footsteps practically laced with fatigue like cyanide in a glass of cheap liquor. It brought a sly smirk to Fontaine's face that he soon smoothed out to a tired but compassionate smile. It wasn't even hard to be Atlas anymore. It fit him like a second skin.

The door creaked, and Jack entered the apartment.

* * *

Just getting to the elevator had been a challenge, several Leadheads and Baby Janes eager to start fights, shrieking loud at him and gibbering madly. Nothing out of the usual, and that thought would've scared him once. He wrinkled his nose at them, eyeing his left hand. Broken glass filled his veins whenever he even thought about using a plasmid, the pain dry and sharp. His whole arm ached, the feeling extending to his dry throat and bruised neck. The one-two punch was out of the question, so he just crushed their skills with his wrench as best he could. The splatters marred his already stained sweater and he gave a sharp exhale. These were the only clothes he had, he couldn't afford this. Still, he continued on.

All the better it would be when he got to the penthouse and collected some hypos, maybe even a first aid kit. Just enough to get by. A gun or two even, he could nick the rest off splicers if anything. They didn't seem to have the trouble in getting weapons.

He flicked the lock to the code for the elevator carelessly, almost sliding down the wall with tiredness. Not here, he thought, seeing almost double with his barely open eyes.

The elevator was claustrophobic, Jack's body feeling packed tight even in the reasonably sized elevator. Even with his reasonable physique it felt cramped and his breath quickened.

_The plane crash had been in such a confined space, no escape available as it declined, and the screaming, the muffled yells of the passengers and the smell of acrid smoke, choking on his own fear- _

He pulled at his dirty hair to stop any errant thoughts, silencing the gears of his mind.

The lift reached its destination with the whirrs and clicks of opening doors, showing an enormous courtyard of raked sand, a few footprints marring it.

He was in Rapture now, he had Atlas just a call away. The past didn't matter so much, it was gone. He was here now. He was fine.

The ceiling dripped and he flinched.

Walking across the sand, his feet dragging with fatigue, he found the lack of Splicers extraordinarily refreshing, the silence comforting rather than fear provoking. Apathy enveloped him as he pushed open the doors to reveal a large, open entrance hall. It felt spacious and intimidating, the huge stuffed polar bear looming over it all, baring its teeth. Jack gave the room a sweeping glance, checking for any splicers. He didn't want nasty suprises.

"It's nice t'finally meet you, boyo."

Jack's gaze snapped up to the stairwell, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping.

Atlas stood there, eyes a tired pale blue in a face that was lit up by his soft smile. He looked as if he'd been sleeping rough, black hair messed and sticking up in all the wrong places. His clothes were in no better condition than Jack's.

Still, he glowed like the sun. Bright and true. It took Jack's breath away.

"Not going to say anythin'?" Atlas grinned, the action lighting up his features as Jack realised he was staring and flicked his gaze away.

"It's good to meet you too," Jack mumbled, staring at the floor between them. He hadn't expected to meet Atlas until this was over, the disaster at the Smuggler's Hideout having been his only glimpse. He would've liked to shake the man's hand then, but now his mouth just felt like sawdust. He hadn't even imagined Atlas would just- just come to him for no reason. His chest ached.

Atlas was holding a beaten-up cardboard box under his arm, which rattled as he moved, glass meeting metal. He felt his empty veins give a throb in response.

"Christ, you're tremblin' worse than a newborn deer! Get up here, Jackie boy, I'll get y'sorted out."

The baritone was filled with concern, the irishman motioning for Jack to follow him with his free hand as he stepped back through the automatic door.

Atlas cared about him. He could hear it in the soft tone, see it in his face. The niggling thoughts of 'maybe he's just using you,' and 'why should you trust him so much?' fell into dead silence.

He eagerly made his way up the stairs after the irishman, almost tripping over his own feet.


	2. Trusting

AN: Thank you all for the reviews/bookmarks! I'm glad you're enjoying this story. There is also a sequel that will be posted straight after this chapter so stay tuned for that.

* * *

Fontaine wanted to chuckle at the boy's wide eyes and mumbled words, his wide-eyed obliviousness a delicious reprieve from the fear and awe he usually inspired.

"Why here?" The kid's voice was rough. Considering the fact he'd almost screamed himself deaf calling for Atlas before the dozens of splicers dragged him off, it wasn't anything he didn't expect. He had struggled so hard. His strength definitely wasn't in question. It was almost admirable.

"It's secure, boyo. I've got a couple turrets up here, so it's safer than just hiding under a couple floorboards."

"You've been hiding up here?" Oh, he was a curious one. Always had been, even in the lab. Always asking why.

"Not always," he led Jack to his bedroom, shrugging as he spoke, "I'm not inclined to be a sittin' duck for Ryan's splicers."

He set the box down on the well-made covers of his bed, the guns clinking against each other, "Now, what're you after?"

Jack didn't answer. He turned his gaze back to him to find the kid was staring around at the room, taking in all the homeliness and empty bottles of whiskey.

Fontaine sighed, "You all right, boyo?"

"Have you been drinking?" The kid's voice quavered, his brown eyes almost watery with concern. Of course he'd be worried about him. His 'sweet Moira' had just died.

"A little," a lot, but he had his vices and wasn't inclined to share them, "just to take the edge off. You needn't worry about me, Jackie boy."

Jack didn't seem to fully believe him, with the way he eyed those bottles, but his gaze slid away from them and back to his face.

"Now, what're you after?" Hopefully the brat wouldn't try his patience any more than that. Jack was many things, and tenacious was one of them.

"Maybe a few hypos, a packet of bandages?" Jack winced even at that request. The kid wasn't clever. He was compromising his safety for Atlas's. That just wouldn't do.

"Surely y'need more than that," he shook his head, changing effortlessly into a concerned tone, "Jackie, you were out for hours."

"I don't want to be a burden."

That was just the icing on the cake.

He motioned for Jack to sit down on the bed, stepping away from the comfortable surface and waiting for the kid to take a seat, perched on the edge like a wary sparrow.

He was an idiot. A fucking moron. It was almost too easy.

"I'll get you somethin' to eat, boyo. Then we can talk properly."

"You don't need to-"

He gave the kid an icy glare and he stopped in his tracks, sentence half finished.

"Would you kindly stop arguing with me?"

The kid looked confused at that, but the expression soon faded.

* * *

Atlas left him then, the sound of his feet almost a stomp.

Something kind of rough had overtaken his voice in his anger, but he'd heard it before, ever faint.

It wasn't new, even if it was a little odd. He was used to odd things, down here.

He eyed the box, wondering if he should take anything, but he banished that thought immediately. He'd wait. He didn't want to be like a splicer, greedy and insatiable. He was a man, not an animal. Not a parasite, like Andrew Ryan said.

He drummed his fingers on the bedspread, admiring how soft it felt under him. He'd slept on so many hard surfaces and under so many barricades that that feeling of a bed was alien. It was a luxury that now felt like it was unattainable.

Atlas had always sung for him when he slept though, Danny Boy through the crackle of the radio. It was soothing. It made him feel safe. He didn't have a beautiful singing voice- it wavered often and was just the slightest bit too pitchy, but it was soothing to listen to nevertheless.

Atlas tried, he did, and that was what mattered. He always asked kindly, helped him when no one else would.

Not even Tenenbaum, with all her morality.

The soft covers kept beckoning Jack, but he couldn't sleep here. Not now. Maybe he'd ask to when Atlas came back. His clothes were disgusting, mildewy and wet with blood that would stain the neatly pressed bedspread. He sat still, poised, until his head ached, sore and screaming for release, for rest, and he rationalized that Atlas wouldn't mind him taking a short nap before he let himself fall across the covers.

The kid was stubborn, naive, and ungrateful.

Too selfless for self preservation, too foolish to ensure his own safety over that of a false man.

Fontaine honestly didn't understand how the brat had made it this far, even with the Vita Chambers hooked up to his genetics. He didn't take supplies from Atlas. Hell, he even caught him asking the Kraut if she could spare the gifts he was given. He'd learn, eventually. Fontaine would ensure it.

Anything fresh was hard to come by in Rapture. Arcadia's food quietly rotted and everything else always seemed stale and soaked in brine.

He, of course, had a stockpile. Apollo Square may have been his base of operations but he made sure he had supplies in his apartment.

Now everyone was too spliced up to think, it paid to be prepared.

The tinned soup wasn't exactly what he was used to, the rich decadence of the foods he had enjoyed as Fontaine still lingering, but it was food. Enough for two, considering how helpful the kid liked being in all his generosity. He'd worry that he was taking too much and he'd offer it to Atlas. He always worried. Shame they couldn't have bred just one damn drop of self preservation into him. Jack was one part killer to two parts naiveté. He laid bare his whole heart to just about anyone who showed him a throwaway degree of kindness.

It didn't take long to start up the stove- manual labour, no matter how minor, was something he was uncomfortably used to. As _Atlas_, voice of the people, the lower class working man, he had no opportunity for luxuries. Slept rough, ate tinned food, acted like a common man who had nothing.

It reminded him uncomfortably of his childhood.

Saucepan, soup. He let his mind go pleasantly blank.

It didn't take long to heat, boring as it was, and he deposited the red soup into a bowl. One spoon.

He was cooking for an assassin. A fake person, a sleepwalker. It would have been humiliating if it wasn't necessary. The kid needed to trust him, without a second thought.

He balanced the bowl on one hand, making his way up the stairs once again. The air of Rapture was wet and cold, but at least the warmth of something heated gave a small reprieve.

"Jack?"

No answer.

He opened the door to his bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

The kid was asleep, peacefully sprawled across his bed like he belonged there. His chest slowly rose and fell, and his body wasn't taut and curled up into itself.

He'd seen Jack sleep. He could barely nod off without Atlas, and even when he managed to he would have nightmare after nightmare. (The plane crash, always about the walls crushing him in) It was a wonder he ever stayed on his feet.

But what was more pressing was that he trusted 'Atlas' enough that he felt safe sleeping in a place that wasn't exactly barricaded, nor was it safe. He'd had splicers in here before, having snuck in through god knows where. That was the primary reason a turret guarded his liquor- some bastard had drank half his best alcohol and passed out on the floor.

Jack mumbled gently in his sleep and turned over, neck fully exposed as he exhaled.

Just like he'd thought. A fucking moron. A joke.

He set the bowl of soup down beside the bed with a small sound of frustration.

Jack was filthy. All that water and he still came out with the same dirt that Rapture wallowed in. He touched Jack's arm, which caused him to start and almost wake, but he settled back into sleep again.

Removing the off-white wool of his sweater was no easy task- it was wet with blood and brine, clinging to his skin so it had to be peeled off. Bruises littered Jack's torso and neck, mottled purple and black, making the shape of hands across his throat. He gave them a faint, clinical touch. Jack had been dragged, the splicers he promised ADAM for the task of taking the boy to Olympus Heights were all too eager. A great number of them had fallen to the bullets of the kid's machine gun, even to his bare hands, so the payout for him was minimal. Not that the splicers cared.

Jack's jeans were clean enough, so there was no need to remove them. He wasn't particularly in that mood anyway.

He caught himself tucking the covers across Jack and stopped hinself halfway, before sighing and settling them across his chest. Might as well.

He pulled up a chair, settling back and taking an idle swig of alcohol. It burned pleasantly down his throat.

Now, he had to wait.

* * *

Jack didn't want to move. He was warm and cradled by cushions that felt as soft as clouds, and if it weren't for the distinct feeling of being watched he would have given back into dreamless sleep.

He blinked his eyes open to see Atlas staring up at the ceiling, tapping a tune he didn't recognise into the arm of a chair. His eyes were sharp with boredom.

"How long have I been asleep?"

His voice was barely audible and sleep-soft, but Atlas' head snapped back down to him with almost unnatural quickness, eyes blazing, before his expression softened.

"About six hours, boyo."

Too long.

"Have you just been sitting there?"

His sweater was gone, and he almost panicked, but he saw it lay clean over the foot of the bed.

"I cleaned your sweater, but other than that, yes."

A whiskey bottle sat empty next to him, but Jack didn't let himself comment.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Atlas raised an eyebrow.

"For being someone I can trust."

Atlas chuckled at that, a dark sound, running a hand through his hair. Jack didn't know what was so funny, but the thought flitted by him.

"I'm glad you trust me, Jackie."

He motioned towards the bedside table, "have something to eat. We can't beat Ryan with you half-starved."

It was a bowl of soup, stone cold and red as blood. He reached for it, taking the bowl into his hands and sitting up. It might've been hot, if he hadn't fallen asleep.

"When you're done, take the guns an' hypos out of the box. Many as you need."

"Your wife was lucky to have you," he said, grateful, and Atlas gave a small smile.

"Wish you could've met her, Jackie. She would've liked you."

That thought was comforting as he raised a spoon of soup to his lips, eating slowly so he wouldn't upset his growling stomach. It was plain, but he'd lived on pep bars and stale coffee for so long that it felt like a luxury.

"Thank you," he set the bowl on the bedside table, reaching across the bedspread and grabbing his sweater.

"You better do something about those wounds,"Atlas eyes him with something like concern.

Jack still had bruises that left his flesh blackened and prone to bleeding, but he pulled his sweater on all the same. It was almost warm and barely damp, good as new apart from the rips. He pushed his arms through the holes and eyed his wrists, the tattoos still stubbornly visible through the purple bruises.

"I'll deal with it in the bathysphere."

"Would you kindly watch out for splicers, boyo? I don't want to have to rescue you from Ryan."

"I will."

He grabbed a hypo from the box, stabbing it into his veins and releasing the EVE into his system. He wondered why the ADAM didn't affect him, physically or mentally. He guessed it was just luck.

He was lucky a lot, it seemed. Vita Chambers saved him, plasmids didn't make him a splicer and he had Atlas.

_Atlas_ who went down the elevator with him, who hummed Danny Boy softly under his breath and smiled so genuinely.

_Atlas_ who kissed him gently on the forehead and left him with a smile that wouldn't seem to go away.

_Atlas_ who he trusted, no matter what.


End file.
